


Just Like You Were Never Gone

by LittleLostPieces



Series: Too Colorful 'Verse [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Louis, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Makeup Artist Harry, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostPieces/pseuds/LittleLostPieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis returns home after six months spent shooting on location.  Harry has a few surprises for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like You Were Never Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a timestamp/sequel to _Too Colorful to Conceal_ , wherein Louis is an actor and Harry is a makeup artist. You don't have to have read that one to understand this one, but you're certainly more than welcome to check it out if you'd like!
> 
> I feel like everything I've written lately has been kind of sad, so I'm slipping back into this world because it's fluffy and happy and I enjoy it. I hope you do, too!

The last six months have been something of an acting workshop for Louis. Sure, he's found success on the screen and the stage, built a respectable career for himself, but working on a giant Hollywood film with an enormous budget and even bigger celebrity names has taught him so much more than he thought it would. 

Improv is something he feels rather adept at now. He's added a subtlety to his comedic repertoire that he knows didn't exist before. He's shot the same lines fifty different ways, from eighty different angles, and found the nuances in his character through playing off of others who have honed their craft in the same way for far longer than Louis has been doing it. With nearly ten years in the industry under his belt, he feels a hundred times better at his job for these one hundred and eighty days he's spent in Canada.

He's had fight training, toned and shaped his body into a thing he never imagined it could be, and learned to rely on his instincts and his muscle memory in new and surprising ways. His stamina is better, aided by a breathing coach and an on-set yoga instructor. He's learned to live in a character, to fully embody him, rather than slipping him on for the take and then sliding right back out again, through meditation and research. Preparation has a whole new meaning to Louis now.

As his plane touches down in London, as he arrives home for the first time in half a year, he realizes that, more than anything else, he's learned the true meaning of exhaustion. He's been working six to seven days a week, between fourteen and sixteen hours a day, throwing everything he has both physically and emotionally into being someone else. There has been no unwinding, no release, and even calls back home have been few and far between. Though his core, his memories and his bones, have missed their creature comforts, his thoughts haven't had time to focus on any of them. 

But it's all over now. 

As soon as the pilot announces their descent into London, Louis exhales, the tension in his muscles shaking loose as though they've just been waiting for permission to realign, as if the very promise of home allows them to relax again.

He shoulders his carry on bag and thumbs his phone out of airplane mode, filtering out of the cabin with a hundred other weary travelers, shuffling mindlessly toward the baggage claim in the red-eye dead of night. 

By the time he reaches the baggage claim, there is a string of texts waiting in his inbox, texts that cause Louis' tired lips to curl into the barest hint of a smile. 

_It's fine. I probably won't be able to sleep anyway._ That was Harry's response to Louis' last message in New York, telling Harry that he would try to be quiet when he gets home, since it would be so late. Or early, he supposes, as dawn is beginning to peek over the horizon outside the airport windows now.

Three pictures follow the message. The first is of the couch that Harry already told Louis he bought, but warned him that he would probably hate. _Get the anger out now. I don't want to hear it when you get home_ , is the caption.

Louis snorts because, after only eighteen months together, a third of it spent on separate continents, Harry knows him really well.

“What the fuck is this monstrosity?” are the first words he speaks to Liam when his agent steps out of the car to help him with his bags at the curb.

Liam just shakes his head and wraps Louis in a welcoming hug. Goddammit, but it feels good to inhale a familiar scent and melt into a nostalgic warmth like Liam's right now. If he were a little less tired, a bit less emotional, he would quip about it, but he takes a second to just appreciate the grounding effect that the man-child that is Louis' best friend has always had when Louis needs it most.

“No, but seriously,” he says when Liam breaks the hug and grabs one of Louis' bags. “What is this fucking ugly couch?”

Waiting until they've shoved the last of Louis' things into the back of the SUV, Liam finally glances at the picture and laughs. “It's comfortable,” he offers with a shrug.

Louis rolls his eyes and climbs into the passenger side of the car before flipping to Harry's next picture message, an industrial-looking lamp that Louis actually does like, placed right beside the couch he already hates. _Thought this might soften blow. Looked like something you would love._

Jesus, Louis has missed this boy. In all of the ways he hasn't allowed himself to actually think about it, he's missed Harry more than he even thought he would. He was well-aware that he loved the cheeky idiot before he flew out to Vancouver to begin the film, but he didn't learn until he'd been there for nearly two full months just how much he'd grown accustomed to Harry fitting into every part of Louis' life.

He thinks he was too spoiled, working with Harry at the beginning of their relationship. They've worked on a couple of different projects separate of one another, but they still found their way back to each other at the end of every one of those days. They found the time to meet Liam, Niall, and Zayn for drinks at the pub Louis still thinks of as 'theirs,' time to actually date and then buy a flat together. And when it couldn't be found, they _made_ time for each other. 

Though they have helped, phone calls and even video messaging haven't been enough. They're not nearly enough.

“I told them you're going to take a few weeks off, at least, before you start considering new projects, though,” Liam is yammering at Louis' side, but Louis can't be bothered to focus on what he's actually saying. He's sure it's important, but it's just gone five in the morning and Louis hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.

Also, he's just opened Harry's third photo. 

A month ago, Harry called during Louis' lunch break to rave about the new theater director he'd just met with. They were going to be staging a Shakespearean revival of Othello, a genderfuck tossup of both binary and non-binary characters, in a sort of post-apocalyptic, “ _but not futuristic_ ”, setting. Harry was absolutely buzzing with the excitement of creating over the top looks for each of the characters, subtle yet readable from the stage. It was a challenge, he'd said, and one that he couldn't wait to start. 

Though Louis was excited because Harry was happy, he didn't have time to think much about Harry's new makeup job. He was having enough trouble keeping up with his own job at the time.

And then Harry started working, sketches and ideas coming to life in his own studio at the back of their house. He brought Eleanor in to work out the actresses' looks, but he somehow thought it would be wise to work the actors' looks out on himself.

He thought that Louis would like to see each one, and it was fine at first. Some of them were standard, with a Harry kind of twist. They were fine. 

And then he started meeting with the hair and wardrobe departments. Louis received pictures of Harry in his standard skinnies and a corset, a wig of long, red waves sticking to the peach gloss smeared across his lips. He saved it to his phone, became intimately familiar with the image, but kept his opinion to himself. 

The thing is, this is Harry's passion. Louis doesn't want to objectify it, but fuck everything, his boyfriend is so very pretty and it takes everything Louis has to curl his fingers around the handle of Liam's door as he opens the final picture Harry sent while Louis was somewhere over the Atlantic a couple of hours ago.

 _I think I finally got it!_ is what the caption under the picture reads and Louis hears himself muttering, “Damn fucking right you did,” before he can stop it from popping out.

“Hm?” Liam asks, barely flicking his eyes from the road and then back again when Louis shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, returning his attention to the phone, to the image of Harry that he saves immediately.

He's been struggling with the central villain of the piece, Harry has. In this rendition of _Othello_ , as Harry explained it to Louis a few weeks ago, Iago is a brilliantly cunning, ruthless, pansexual man, one who happens to also cross-dress. The director has cast an actor with Harry's similar build – broad chest and shoulders tapering into a thin waist and long legs – and wants Harry to design a look that maintains his shape, that conveys to the audience that this character is not attempting to pass as a woman, but rather that he feels most powerful when outfitted as a sort of stereotypical comic book heroine. 

Louis has saved about a thousand messages, documenting Harry's frustration with this concept.

It seems, however, that the struggle is over. 

On the screen, Harry is dressed in a skin-tight body glove of a grey leather catsuit, unzipped to his sternum so that the birds tattooed on his collarbones are framed by the fabric, only the antennae of his butterfly tattoo showing. He's wearing platform boots, giving his calves a distinct definition through the leather. There are holsters strapped around his left bicep and his right thigh, both containing prop daggers – at least Louis hopes they're props; Harry's not the most graceful with sharp objects outside of the kitchen – and another belted low on his waist, twin silver handguns resting against his hips to give the illusion of curves. 

There is a blond bobbed wig framing his face, thick false lashes drawing attention to his wide eyes, and a wet slick of red gloss on his full lips. Louis wants them wrapped around his cock immediately. He wants to be dominated by Harry's Iago, thrown about the bedroom until he begs for mercy that Harry will not show him. Fuck everything, Louis' boy is so, so pretty.

“Drive faster, Liam,” he commands, sounding far more breathless than is probably appropriate.

They're nearly home, only a few miles away, when Louis thumbs through the rest of the messages, sans pictures. They're pointless, ramblings thoughts that occurred to Harry in the moment, standard Harry fodder. There’s nothing special about any of them but they make Louis’ chest throb for home like nothing else has managed to do.

Finally, after what seems like fifty detours and a lifetime of foot-tapping, they pull to a stop in front of Louis’ flat. Though he’d only lived in it for a couple of months before he fucked off to Los Angeles for rehearsals, the site immediately beckons to Louis like the outstretched arms of a patiently waiting parent. Home. He’s finally home.

Liam helps him to unload his bags, carries them to the front door, and then says something about giving Louis some time off, but Louis isn’t listening. The chances that Harry will still be dressed up are slim, but Louis can hope and know that he doesn’t want Liam to see it if it’s true. 

The house is quiet when he slips into the foyer, immediately dropping his bags and fumbling for the first light switch he can find. It smells like sweets, as though Harry was baking before bed, and the dim glow of the overhead lamps give everything a hazy, diffused, comfortable effect. The lounge beckons Louis and, aside from that seriously ugly couch, it is the most beautiful place on earth.

A bang from the direction of the kitchen shatters the silence, enough for Louis to feel comfortable shouting, “Honey, I’m home!” at the top of his lungs.

“Fuck!” Harry shouts in response which, well, it’s not exactly, _Thank goodness, I’ve missed you so much I’ve barely managed to survive in your absence_ , but Louis supposes he can’t have everything.

When he finally comes to a stop in the kitchen doorway, Harry is standing at the island, banging a muffin tin against the granite counter top, and sucking on his middle finger. He’s dressed only in his pants - tight, black briefs with orange stitching along the seams - and a giant pair of Lego slippers.

“You alright there, love?” Louis asks, but his laughter dies in his throat when Harry looks up at him.

He’s washed the makeup from his face, but there are smudges of liner still evident around his eyes, a stain of red still there on his lips. He looks like the most beautiful morning-after, walk-of-shame Louis has ever seen.

“Liam was supposed to call when you were on the way,” is all Harry says, sucking his finger back into his mouth again.

And really, Louis would like to concentrate or apologize or give a shit about Liam right now, but Harry is _sucking_ on his finger, his cheeks hollowed and lips pursed so pretty around that one digit, the flush of heat coloring his neck and bare chest. 

It occurs to Louis, suddenly and so painfully, that it’s been six months since he’s seen this kid, since he’s been able to reach out and touch him, yet he’s hovering in the doorway like a knob.

“Aw,” he teases, making his way across the kitchen, forcing himself to walk slowly instead of launching himself at Harry and riding him to the floor like a pony. “Lemme see it, yeah?”

Harry’s brow is furrowed, but his eyes are sparkling as he pops the finger out of his mouth and holds it between them for Louis to inspect. “Was tryin’ to make you cupcakes,” he says, that red lip pouted so prettily that it’s all Louis can do not to strip out of all of his clothes right here in the kitchen.

“It’s five in the morning, you donut,” Louis reminds him, pressing a soft kiss to the pinkened pad of Harry’s finger. “I don’t want cupcakes. I want to sleep in my own bed with my naked boy.” He tangles their fingers together and pulls Harry closer, resting his hand on the warm skin of Harry’s hip. “Hi, by the way. I missed you a bit.”

“Welcome home,” Harry says on a laugh, every line in his face easing, light beaming from his eyes as he seems to finally realize that Louis is here, touching him again. “I might have missed you, too.”

“Might have, hm?”

“Maybe,” Harry answers with a nod, bringing their foreheads together and resting his hand on the back of Louis’ neck. “Just a bit, though. I’m a very busy man.”

Though he playfully pushes Harry back a bit, Louis keeps a tight grip on his hand and as he blatantly rakes his eyes over his nearly naked boyfriend. Of course he’s seen pictures of Harry during their time apart, but none of them did justice to the changes he’s noticing now that they’re pressed together again.

His hair is longer now, soft curls nearly brushing the base of his neck. His body, still insanely fit and acceptably bare at the moment, is softer than Louis remembers it. His skin is warm and where there were sharp cuts of muscle at his chest and hips when Louis left, Harry is now sporting the slightest hint of curves today. There are new tattoos inside his arms and across the V’s of his hips, leaving Louis to wonder if there are anymore hidden behind the scant clothing he’s wearing.

“Never again,” he whispers as his focus drags back to Harry’s face, where his lip is bitten between his teeth as he waits for Louis to finish looking. Louis feels like he’ll never get his fill, but it’s going to get creepy if he doesn’t stop soon. “I’m never leaving again.”

Romantic that he is, Harry snorts. “That’s a bit codependent, innit?”

“Six months,” is Louis’ response, one that Harry seems to understand perfectly. “Now, are you going to stop being a smartass and kiss me or is that not a thing we do anymore?”

The internal struggle between spouting off another comeback and actually doing as Louis asks is evident on Harry’s face, but his eyes still give everything away. Some things, Louis supposes, never really change.

Having Harry’s lips pressed against his own is better than anything he’s imagined or fantasized about in the last few months. He tastes like icing sugar and fruit, whimpers softly in the back of his throat, tongues into Louis’ mouth without hesitation. His arms are casually looped around Louis’ neck, his lithe body pressed tight against Louis’ as he loses himself so, so easily. 

When Harry catches Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth, when he _giggles_ and pulls playfully on it, Louis feels the growl vibrating in his throat as he clutches Harry’s hips tighter, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. 

One night, over drinks with one of his co-stars in Los Angeles, Louis was drunkenly bemoaning the fact that he wasn’t getting regularly laid. _”Put it out of your mind, focus on something else, bro,”_ was the advice he was given. _”Unless you wanna talk to him about opening up your relationship while you’re here, because the longer you think about all the sex you’re not having, the more sure you are to find someone else to give it to you._ ” It seemed impossible at the time, putting it out of his mind, but Louis managed to do it. He missed the hell out of Harry, FaceTime sex occasionally taking the edge off, but he learned to focus on what he was doing. 

Feeling Harry writhing against him now, though, reminds Louis that it’s been 180 days since he’s been able to have this. And, fuck, but he _wants_ it. Now.

He tucks his fingers into the band of Harry’s pants, desperate to get his hands on every part of this beautiful boy. 

“Wait,” Harry whines, breaking their kiss with a labored gasp. “Not in my kitchen.”

“What?”

Harry’s eyebrow arches in challenge. “It’s not sanitary.”

“Who the fuck cares?” Louis asks, voice climbing in desperation. “It has been half a year!”

“C’mon,” is all Harry says, wrapping his fingers around Louis’ wrist to drag him out of the room. “Couch is very comfortable if you don’t wanna go upstairs,” he says, smiling through his words.

Louis can’t stop the audible snarl that rips from his throat when he looks at that damn sofa. “It’s so fucking ugly,” he whines while Harry laughs and drags him toward the steps.

He has every intention of throwing Harry down on the bed as soon as they’re through the bedroom door, but Louis has always been easily distracted. It’s not like it’s his fault that his attention catches on the closet door, on the fucking silver catsuit just hanging there, taunting him like a terrible joke.

“Knew you’d like it. Jesus, Lou, you’re so fucking easy,” Harry murmurs against his ear, hands pawing at Louis’ hips as he maneuvers them through the bedroom. It doesn’t sound like an insult coming from Harry, nothing does in his honey sweet rumble of a voice. “So transparent with your kinks,” he adds, his hands slipping down Louis’ back to rest on the swell of his ass. 

“Less talking,” Louis manages to whisper, his voice stuck in the back of his throat when Harry nips at his jugular.

“Thought about keeping it on for you, ya know,” he alludes to the catsuit over his shoulder. “Makes me feel powerful, that. But where’s the fun in that? No imagination, is there?” he asks, breath hot and damp against Louis’ neck as he presses his open mouth to all of the pulse points there. 

Turning like a doll in Harry’s arms, Louis does his best to maintain his composure by raising an eyebrow and tugging Harry flush against him by the band of his pants. “Where’s the _fun_ in that?” he challenges. “Later, when I’ve had some sleep and can properly appreciate it, I’m going to show you where the fun is in that,” he promises.

Harry’s laughter is gruff as they tumble to the bed, tangling and rolling until Louis is pinned with his arms above his head and Harry’s knee pressing tight against Louis’ painfully hard cock. He catches Louis’ earlobe between his teeth and growls before he whispers, “Missed you so much,” against the side of Louis’ face, too soft and sincere for the desperate atmosphere in the room.

Wedging his hand into the limp curls at Harry’s crown, Louis tugs his head back until he can capture Harry’s lips, stuffing his tongue into Harry’s mouth as he ruts against the length of Harry’s thigh. “Fuck,” he groans, the friction alone worlds better than anything he’s felt in half a year.

The zip of his jeans is painful through the thin fabric of his pants, chafing with each thrust of his hips, and it’s hotter than it should be when Harry discerns Louis’ uncomfortable whine from his sexier ones. 

Louis whimpers as Harry pulls away, his chest flushing when Harry smiles knowingly, his long fingers nimbly working the flies of Louis’ jeans until he can peel them away from his hips and down his legs. “Shh,” he murmurs as he works to free them both of their pants, tossing everything onto the floor before covering Louis with his body once again.

“That’s better,” Harry declares, taking both of Louis’ wrists in one hand again, holding them fast against the bed above their heads. 

When he rolls his hips forward, when their bare cocks slide wet against each other, Louis gasps. “So much better, _fuck_ ,” and finds he’s not embarrassed in the least with this desperate need he’s feeling, with the way he knows he’ll get off in seconds. He’s had so many fantasies over the last six months, ways they’ll take their time re-learning and re-discovering one another’s bodies again after so much time apart, but there’ll be time for that later. 

It’s a mad scramble of thrusting and rubbing off, each of them grunting as they chase a release they haven’t been able to find in ages, but it’s when Harry gently rubs his thumb over Louis’ eye, underneath it, and leans down to kiss the dark circles and bags that sleepless nights and missing _him_ have left there that Louis feels this frenzy of motion building to its crescendo. 

“Love you,” Harry says, breathless and yet so softly sincere, and Louis feels hours and days and months of missing him exploding into the deep security that he’s home now.

His body seizes, rigid and tight, the air sucked from his lungs as he comes, fingers clenching nothing in Harry’s grip and one leg hooked round Harry’s back like a clinging, little koala.

It barely takes another second- maybe two or three, Louis’ not exactly thinking so clearly - for Harry to finish rubbing against Louis’ stomach with a low, satisfied groan in Louis’ ear as he does. 

He feels Harry climb off of the bed while Louis is still blinking at the ceiling, fighting to regain some composure. He’s spent months running around the forests of Vancouver, working out and building his stamina, and it only took Harry about fifteen minutes to steal his breath completely. This boy, honestly.

After he’s cleaned Louis and himself, Harry climbs into the bed and spoons himself behind Louis, wrapping him up tight and dropping quick kisses to the back of his ear and along the column of his neck. “Sleep now, yeah?” he asks in a much more vulnerable tone than he was using just a bit ago, manhandling Louis around the room.

Instead of saying so, Louis nods, sinking back into Harry’s chest and letting sleep claim him completely.

*

He doesn’t wake until noon, rolls over to find the bed empty with a note from Harry on the pillow. 

_Working until about 6. Niall wants to go for drinks later, if you’re up for it._

Drinks with the lads at their local will be a great way to start his off-time, he thinks, and then promptly remembers that he has no obligations, no call times or meetings, and rolls back over to sleep once more.

*

The red numbers on the bedside clock declare it nearly three when Louis awakens again, this time rolling himself out of bed to piss and wander down the stairs for a snack. He worried on the plane that it had been too long since he’d had a day off to do fuck all, that he wouldn’t remember how to lazily unwind and allow himself a few days to lounge about in front of the telly wearing nothing but his trackies and talking to the contestants on a horrible reality show, like he did before his career really started to take off.

As it turns out, nothing sounds better to Louis at the moment. He thinks he’ll be just fine with doing nothing, thanks.

The kitchen still smells like baked goods, faint and sweet in the air as Louis makes his way to the refrigerator. He laughs when he opens it, stacks of microwavable containers neatly organized inside to greet him. There are notes stuck to each one and he smiles at the thought of Harry preparing for his return home despite his recently hectic work schedule.

They are labeled with the name of the meal inside, the date they were made, and a personal note with instructions about each one. _Curry, Zayn’s mum’s spice blend, really good with beer_ , and _Sunday Roast, leftovers from Mum and Gemma visiting, think they miss you more than me_ , and _Spag Bol, I love you, don’t let it stain my counter tops again please_. 

There are some simple ones - the noodles just say _I missed you_ , the kebabs say _I’m glad you’re home_ \- and those make Louis smile so hard he has to remind his face to shut up and stay cool.

The shrimp scampi makes him laugh out loud: _This is not for you. Honestly! Even just to be a little shit, do not do it, Louis!_ When Louis peels the lid back, he finds a layer of plastic wrap with another note. _I'm not kidding. Every time you eat this, you get a stomach ache. I will not rub your belly if you eat it this time. You have been warned._

He returns it to its place, still chuckling, but the laughter dies when he finds a platter of macaroons on the top shelf, next to the milk. _Baked these at 5 am bc I’m tired of sleeping in our bed alone. We’re not doing this again, it’s bullshit. I miss you to the moon and back._ It’s dated three days ago and if Louis is blinking furiously, it’s because the overhead lights are bright and he’s just woken up. That’s all.

He reaches for his phone, sends Harry a quick text - _You made me meals_ \- and then sets about heating the shrimp scampi because it looks amazing and his stomach only hurts a little when he eats shellfish. He’ll be fine by the time Harry returns home.

Harry responds in seconds, as though he’s been waiting for Louis to find his surprise all day. _I’ve only just gotten you back. Don’t want to lose you to a kitchen accident already._

 _I love you_ , Louis replies after he’s set the microwave for a few minutes’ time. _Even though you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are._

*

When Harry comes home, nearly four hours later, Louis doesn’t rush to greet him. He’s watching saved episodes of _The Great British Bake-off_ , much too full of macaroons and tea, much too lazy and love drunk to move from this ugly sofa, even for Harry.

“Oh, what is this?” Harry asks pointedly, dropping his bag at the lounge door and smiling brightly as he makes his way toward Louis. “His Highness has lowered himself to lie about on the couch, has he?”

“Shut up,” Louis snaps, though it’s probably less than effective with the immediate smile Harry’s presence brings to his lips. He won’t admit that Liam was right, the couch is bloody fucking comfortable, even upon threat of death. He’ll pretend to hate it, even if everyone in the world knows it’s a lie.

Harry assesses the situation quickly, his eyes flicking to the array of dishes on the coffee table, the half-empty tray of macaroons and the empty scampi container, the notes still stuck to the lid where he’d left them. He huffs and shoots Louis a narrowed glare.

With a shrug and a cheeky half-grin, Louis shrugs. “What?” he asks, with all of the innocence of a guilty child.

Sighing, Harry leans back on the sofa and rests his hand flat on Louis’ bare belly. “I told you-,” he starts.

But Louis just purrs under the ministrations of Harry’s fingers, satisfied and warm as he arches into the touch. “I’m my own man, Harry,” he declares. “I do what I want.”

Though he shakes his head, Harry laughs as he continues to work his hand in small circles over Louis’ skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“You love our couch,” Harry retorts.

Louis opens one eye and barely lifts one hand to point a finger in Harry’s direction. “ _Your_ couch. I had nothing to do with-,” he stops himself short, rolling a bit to open both eyes and focus on Harry’s face. “Love? Are you wearing eyeliner?”

His cheeks flush pink as Harry nods shyly and averts his gaze to his hand on Louis’ stomach. “Yeah, a bit,” he admits.

“Is this a new thing for you, then?” Louis asks, covering Harry’s hand with his own to draw his attention back to Louis’ face.

“I don’t know yet,” Harry admits, and it’s strange to see him suddenly looking sheepish. If there’s one thing Harry has not been since the day Louis met him, it’s anything resembling timid. “I think I do like it a bit,” he admits.

Makeup isn’t something new in conjunction with Harry, obviously. They’ve been intertwined in Louis’ mind since the day they met, after all. He can’t sit in a makeup chair at work without thinking of Harry’s large, steady hands and his precise attention to every detail of his client’s face. It’s just not something Louis is used to Harry wearing himself, outside of trying a look on himself before unleashing it on a client anyway. 

Struggling to sit, moaning a bit at the way his stomach contracts with the movement, Louis swings a leg over Harry’s and sits himself on Harry’s thighs. He pushes Harry’s hair away from his face, takes in the lovely angles and planes of his cheekbones and jawline before allowing himself to focus on the intensity of his green eyes beyond the smudges of black at his lashes.

“Mm,” he hums, smearing the corner of the makeup at Harry’s right eye with his thumb and then swooping in for a hard kiss while still tugging at Harry’s hair, just hard enough to make Harry’s eyes go glassy and unfocused. “Me, too. I like it, too.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, voice floaty and a bit disbelieving.

Resting his forehead against Harry’s, Louis smiles until he can feel the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m fairly sure that you couldn’t be unattractive to me ever, love. You could shave half your hair and dye the rest mustard colored, break out into a thousand spots, and pluck all your eyebrows out and I’d still be stupidly in love with your ridiculous face, I think.”

Harry throws his head back, barking an obnoxiously loud, yelping laugh that warms Louis down to his toes. “Is that so?” he asks when he’s calmed himself and met Louis’ eye again, his hands now resting low on Louis’ hips.

Though Louis nods - he _would_ still love Harry, no matter what he did to himself, honestly - and then gives Harry’s curls another sharp tug. “Except maybe don’t shave off half your hair, please,” he reconsiders. “I’d still love you, obviously, but I quite like this new length you’ve got going.” When Harry hums, content, Louis tilts his head again and adds, “Unless you’ve kept that blond wig. I’m rather fond of that, as well. As a second option, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoes with a roll of his eyes and a pinch to Louis’ side. He clears his throat and considers Louis for another moment before he says, “It’s too bad we’ve got to meet the lads for drinks in a couple of hours.”

Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead and asks, “Why’s that?”

“You’ll find out later,” Harry answers with a self-satisfied, infuriating grin. He smacks Louis’ thigh and says, “Come on, then. We’ve got to get ready. Don’t want to keep our friends waiting.”

*

They’re running late anyway, a quick shower together - to save time, of course - having turned into Louis on his knees, sucking Harry off until he screamed Louis’ name against the tiled wall. Oh well, Louis thinks, such is life. He figures their mates know he’s not even been home for twenty-four hours yet. They know him well enough to understand a bit of tardiness, surely.

“Harold!” he shouts up the stairs for the third time. “We are now officially late!” 

“Give me two minutes,” Harry shouts in return, but Louis is nothing if not impatient.

Also, he’s opportunistic, so if there’s a chance Harry isn’t quite dressed yet, he’ll just jog up the steps for a last glimpse of that muscled, bare torso before they leave. It’ll be like a quick hit to hold him over, really.

Except. Well, this isn’t what he was expecting at all.

Harry stops, wide-eyed when Louis bursts into the room, frozen in place with a black and white button-up held between his fingers. “You’re not meant to see this yet,” he says, voice far more even than Louis feels at the moment.

Though he’s holding his shirt, Harry is wearing his standard, ripped skinny jeans and a pair white socks - nothing out of the ordinary there. His curls are held back from his face in a bright red and blue silk scarf, a stark contrast to his dark hair but, again, nothing new. He’s also wearing a bit of liner around his eyes, but even that isn’t shocking.

It’s the black, satin corset he’s wearing that has Louis’ jaw dropping. 

He’s seen it before, in a photograph Harry sent him ages ago, but it’s a million times more beautiful in person. There is a small, swirling pattern of white thread embroidered along the satin, each bone covered in soft, red velvet. It’s cinched carefully, but not too tightly, against Harry’s thin torso, stopping just shy of his nipples. Nothing is pushed up or together or out, but it somehow manages to make Harry’s tanned skin look more pale, the black tattoos on his collarbones more pronounced.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers, taking a moment to stare at the entire look before swallowing hard against the lump building in his throat. “Jesus Christ,” he adds with a slow shake of his head because, well, his boy is bloody fucking beautiful.

“You’ve spoiled the surprise,” Harry grumbles, looking a bit like an adorable kitten as he scrunches his nose and rolls his eyes, tugging his shirt on over the corset and beginning to button it up. “So it serves you right that you’re going to have to spend the whole night knowing what you’ll get later, doesn’t it?”

Somewhere in Louis’ mind, he thinks that he should apologize, but he’s just not feeling sorry. Not even a bit, really.

Fumbling instead for the phone in his pocket, he dials Liam’s number quickly and waits for him to answer, holding his finger out for Harry to wait a second before he buttons his shirt. 

“Yeah, Payno, sorry to ring on such short notice and all, but we’re not going to make it to the pub tonight,” he says. He shushes Harry when he starts to speak and then returns his attention to the phone. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. We’re fine.” 

He could lie and say that one of them has a bug, use his earlier shrimp related illness to their advantage, but he’s too turned on and in love to bother. 

“Yes, healthy as can be, Liam, I promise. It’s just that I’ve been away for ages and Harry looks positively edible right now, so I think I’ll stay home and eat him out instead of joining you, if it’s all the same?”

He can’t honestly say which is more satisfying, the way Liam squawks in his ear or the way Harry’s eyes double in size even as the evident bulge in his indecently tight pants begins to grow. 

Hanging up without waiting for a response, Louis tosses his phone onto the nearby vanity and crosses to Harry, ripping his shirt open and pushing it off his shoulders. “That’s settled then, we’re having a night in. Goddammit, I’ve missed you,” he moans, dipping his head to capture one of Harry’s nipples between his teeth.

Harry groans, stumbling back to the bed and pulling Louis along with him, both of Harry’s hands on the back of Louis’ neck as he brings both legs around Louis’ back and stretches languidly against the still-disheveled sheets.

“Jesus,” Harry groans, pulling Louis back to aim the most lewd and suggest smile in his direction. “Wait until you see what I’m wearing under the jeans,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Louis’ heart hammers in anticipation, his fingers stumbling against the braided belt Harry is wearing before he can attack the button and pull the jeans away. He’s barely uncovered a hint of black satin and red lace before he moans and has to adjust himself in his own trousers. 

“Never leaving this bed again,” he growls, catching Harry’s laughter in his mouth while frantically pulling Harry’s jeans away. He has to break the kiss to strip himself down, but when he looks back at the bed, it’s worth it.

Sprawled against the light sheets, Harry is a picture, to be sure. It’s not the costume or the makeup or the miles of limbs that have Louis clambering back to him as though he needs Harry as much as he needs air, though. Corsets and eyeliner didn’t have him lying awake at night, thousands of miles away, longing for home.

It’s the look in Harry’s eyes, the wild, turned on, pure love look about him that fucks Louis’ up and melts him like bubbling lava to the core, that hopefully always will.

Fuck, but it’s good to be home.

*

“I was worried,” Louis says later, when Harry is draped naked across his own bare chest, his breath soft puffs against the corner of Louis’ jaw. His fingernails skate up and down the length of Harry’s spine as he hums into the stillness between them. “That it was too long, that I would come back and everything would be different, maybe that you’d figured out it was better without me or something.”

It sounds silly, even as he says it, but he’s wide awake and wholly sated and can’t figure out why in the world it’s a bad idea to say these things to Harry. The darkness provides a bit of security, the bedside lamps too dim to illuminate the fears slowly beginning to release Louis from their hold now that he’s got Harry pressed against him again.

Harry, who leans up onto one elbow, studies the side of Louis’ face with a pensive sort of look. “It was hard,” he finally admits when Louis blinks and rolls his head toward Harry. “Not at first, I don’t think, but after awhile.” He moves his hand, one finger trailing slowly over the curve of Louis’ cheekbone and down to his mouth, his eyes tracking it as it moves over Louis’ lower lip. “When you were working all the time, before I got this job, that was hard. When all the other lads had something going on, dates and work and things to do, and all I had to do was wander around this empty house, that was hard.”

Louis knows it was - Harry told him, loudly and angrily in one memorable phone call especially - so he feels like he has to ask, “Did you think about leaving? Or ending it, I guess. Whatever?”

The smile that spreads slowly over Harry’s face is genuine and soft, his eyes fond as he shakes his head. “Some of my mates said I should, you know the ones,” he says, laughing a bit when Louis bites at his finger and grumbles a name under his breath. “But I told him, told everyone, that I would figure out how to get through it and you’d be back eventually. I didn’t want to give up when you weren’t even here to fight me on it.” His finger slips down Louis’ chin and rests in the hollow of his throat. “And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Louis agrees with the slightest hint of a nod. “All yours again for awhile,” he promises.

“Until the next job,” Harry says, but he’s smiling when he kisses Louis’ jaw and then the corner of his mouth. “I mean that. I want you to take every job that you want, go away and make huge films and be as big and sought-after as you want to be, as successful as I know you can be, and I’ll be here when you get back.” He settles his head against Louis’ shoulder and hums. “Every time. I’ll be here.”

Harry has changed a bit in six months, Louis has noticed. He looks a little different and some of the phrases he uses are new. He carries himself with even more self-assurance than he did before. It’s nothing drastic, nothing more than the typical changes a person goes through over time, but he’s not the same Harry that Louis left behind. 

Forty-eight hours ago, while he was haphazardly packing a suitcase to come home, that thought scared Louis. Now he knows that he never needed to worry about it at all. Harry didn’t say he’d be _waiting_ for Louis to get home because he has his own career and friends and interests. Maybe it will be Harry’s job that takes him away next time, his own opportunity to chase his rising star on another continent, away from Louis. But that’s alright, as well. 

“Me too, ya know?” he says into Harry’s hair, brushing it back until he can kiss Harry’s temple. “I’ll be here, too,” he promises.

Harry snorts, interrupting the rather romantic moment Louis thought he was building. “You better be,” Harry tells him, snuggling his arms around Louis and burrowing against his shoulder. “Otherwise, you’ll be sleeping on the couch you love so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to drop by and say hi on [tumblr](http://littlelostpieces.tumblr.com/).


End file.
